


above the earth, below the sky

by touchmytardis



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Author is scared to post, Grigormass, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm sorry this had to happen sooner or later, M/M, Many Things John Segundus Would Never Do, Nothing They Haven't Done Before, a bit of fae, a bit of hate, nothing TOO kinky, oh henry, sex pollen but also not?, they fuck, things one might do outdoors, this ship is trash and, trees and things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchmytardis/pseuds/touchmytardis
Summary: a hot summer morning in Hurtfew.the woods are calling for Childermass,Childermass is calling for Lascelles.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 24
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> absolutely not beta'd, barely edited, and mostly written in a frenzy. as all my things are.
> 
> this takes place IN THE MIDDLE OF canon, I've just sent them to Hurtfew for a summer break here.  
> I might add more warnings but like... if you're reading anything featuring this thirsty ship you probably know what you're getting into. to quote a famouse poetician: there will be blood. just a little though. and a little bit of violence.

Henry Lascelles hates the countryside. He hates the sound of birds in the morning and he hates the lack of shops and public houses and fashionable people whose parties and dinners he could attend. It seems as though the dirt and insects never go away, no matter how many times he washes himself or his clothes. It is everywhere. Oh, how he misses London! How he misses only being dirtied by the mud and dust of the city. He despises the view from the small bedroom he has claimed as his own at Hurtfew Abbey, a vast expanse of fields covered in a veil of light purple, acting as a constant reminder that he is far away from civilization. A copse of trees interrupt the monotony of purple, large and green and nothing like the parks in London. No, these woods look older, even more so on this grey morning. It is almost faerie-like. 

He takes some comfort in the knowledge that it is already August, and that Mr Norrell will most likely want to return to London before winter. Hopefully earlier. Henry has only been here for a fortnight, but it feels like months. Work, pride and respect for Mr Norrell is what has drawn him here, but his intense dislike for the North and the countryside allowed him to come up with a number of excuses to postpone his journey. However, when he had learned that Childermass would be returning to Mr Norrells’ side in Hurtfew, he had had no choice but to leave the comfort of his own home, and London, and make the long journey to Yorkshire. 

His nights have been fretful, the strange sounds and scents have stirred him from his sleep at least once every night since he arrived, and there is a chill in the air that had not been present in London when he had left. Most of the time, it feels as though autumn is already well on its way, but he supposes it is the proximity to the wilderness – the windy moors and the lack of other houses and people. He suspects that Mr Norrell may have neglected the guests’ quarters when insulating the abbey against the harsh winters of the north. Mr Norrell rarely had guests, so what would the point be when it did not affect his own comfort? Even though Henry had not seen Mr Norrell’s private rooms he suspected they were much warmer, and most likely on the first floor, where there were less drafts. 

It vexed him that Mr Norrell would not show him the entirety of Hurtfew Abbey, that he had never been given a tour of the entire house and that he was constantly advised against walking around too much. The last time he had asked Mr Norrell about the labyrinthine halls and the rooms he had still not seen, Mr Norrell had raised his head from his book, blinked a few times, turned to Childermass and then turned his attention back to the book. “It’s Hurtfew. She doesn’t trust you”, were the exact words Childermass had used, his northern accent as thick as ever, his one-sided smile accompanied by a raised eyebrow. Absolutely disgraceful. 

How Norrell had kept him so close for so long he would never understand. He was a servant, there was no question about it, but he acted as though he was more than that, and Mr Norrell sometimes treated him as something of an equal – a gentleman. And Childermass was nothing like a gentleman. He dressed poorly, spoke with an accent. His hair was often greasy and he would pick up dirty cups from the desks of the library. Much like a servant. However, a servant showed more respect – they knew their place and knew how to treat their betters. Childermass had never treated Lascelles with respect. These things, however, were not the worst thing about Childermass. Mr Norrell truly trusted Childermass, he trusted his opinions and sometimes it felt as though Childermass’ words held more weight than Henry’s. This is why he had decided to go to Hurtfew Abbey, leaving Mr Norrell alone with such a questionable character as his only company just did not feel right. Henry Lascelles was, after all, known to be a very good friend and confidante to Mr Norrell.

It had been a week since Childermass had returned, and Lascelles had made sure to not leave him alone with Mr Norrell more than absolutely necessary. It felt as though every single day was the same, and every night Henry found himself laying awake and missing the comfort of his own home. All there was here was work, exercise and meals. If Mr Norrell had not had such a well-stocked wine cellar, Lascelles thinks he might have shrivelled up and died out of boredom. They might have found his dried-up corpse in his chair in the library, a dreary article from The Friends in front of him and a thick layer of dust on his once-fine clothing. Because time seemed to stand still here, it would not surprise him if his dead body would go unnoticed for weeks. Dying in Yorkshire. Such an uncivilized death would be sure to please Drawlight.

The fresh winds and bright sun have been replaced by a dense cover of clouds. It is hot, humid and grey and the chills from the previous night feel like some strange distant memory. From his room, Henry can only find his way to the parlour and the entrance hall, and neither feel very tempting. Going outside would surely be worse. He already knows he will not be seeing Mr Norrell for hours – this is the kind of weather that give him the most dreadful headaches. Even Henry can feel a dull throbbing somewhere behind his eyes. Worse than the heat, however, is the smell. It might have felt a bit more like home if only the air was not constantly tinged with the scent of the moors – sweet and earthy and on days like this where there iss little to no wind - it was overwhelming. Like a bad perfume that was only ever used to cover some other foul odour. 

Lascelles is still only half dressed, his shirt still unbuttoned and he is considering staying in his bedchamber for the day. Surely he is not expected to get any work done in this weather. He is also thinking that surely, no person in their right mind would even go outside in this weather, but in the corner of his eye, he sees a shape moving across the field. Not on the neat road that leads away from the Hurtfew Abbey and the bridge crossing the river Hurt, but to the side of it; towards the woods. A tall person with dark hair. Lascelles thinks his blood might start to boil right there and then. If John Childermass is leaving the house, in this weather and this early in the morning, he must be up to something. And if Childermass is up to something, Lascelles needs to know what it is. He considers putting his dressing gown on, but decides against it. It is far too hot and it is highly unlikely that he will meet anyone. He steps into his shoes and quietly rushes to the entrance and out into the stifling morning air.


	2. Chapter 2

Childermass has been waking himself up right before dawn since he arrived back at Hurtfew. His body instinctively knows when it is time to get up and will rouse him from his sleep. He dresses quickly and heads outside with no real destination in mind, only wanting to experience as much of home before the rest of the household wakes up. He will wander the moors and the woods until the sun is up and then return to the garden where he will stay until he is needed.

This morning is not that different, but he feels a sense of urgency in his body. His limbs are restless and his heart is eager. The air in his attic-room is stifling, so he leaves his waistcoat on the bed, and rushes down the stairs and out into the fresh air. He is, however, not met with the cool breeze he had been hoping for, it’s just as hot and humid and still as it had been inside the house, perhaps even worse. A thick cover of clouds keep most of the morning light at bay, with a few holes here and there letting just enough light through to show Childermass that the sun in, in fact, rising.

Drops of dew are lingering on the ground, the humidity allowing them to survive in spite of the heat, making the tips of each blade of glass shine in the pale light. The young and frail trees lining the river are calmer than Childermass has ever seen them, not even a tremble in the thin branches. The dark clouds look as though they might start weeping at any moment. The birds are unusually loud this morning, as though they are trying to warn each other of the coming storm, across the trees and across the species. 

When he has crossed the bridge, Childermass is sure the birds quiet down to keep him from listening in on their private conversations. A magpie screeches somewhere on the other side of the river, but it is a lonely and far-off sound. Perhaps he should think twice before heading out this morning. Perhaps the birds were trying to tell him something. Whatever it might be, Childermass is sure he can handle it, if there indeed is something that he needs to be wary of. He leaves the path and walks towards the woods, hoping that the shade of the trees will offer some comforting coolness. The scent of the moors and the woods is intoxicating, the thick air seems to carry the heavy scents with it, even though there is no breeze. If this had been London, he would have been sure there was some magic being done – but this is home, and while this is not a common morning, it is not unheard of.

Once he reaches the place where dandelion-strewn meadow meets trees, he slows down. Takes a few deep breaths and greets the woods in his usual way. 

He still knows these woods by heart, he knows the paths the animals take and where the mushrooms grow. He can find a number of plants one might use for magic, if one was so inclined. The woods have started changing more and more since Mr Norrell moved to London, he can longer watch the changes each season, and considers himself lucky if he can watch as summer turns into fall. He knows these woods by heart and the woods know his heart better than any living human. 

The brambles have spread significantly since last summer, and he has to use his leg to move some thorny branches from the path. They have already bloomed, and Childermass picks a handful of dark berries before he continues deeper into the forest. The berries are perfectly ripe, sweet and juicy with just a hint of tartness. He wonders why the scullery maids no longer pick the berries for preserves and desserts, they used to enjoy the late summer day when they would come to the edge of the forest, “a lovely change of pace”, one of them had told Childermass. Considering how overgrown it now was, it seemed as though they had not been here in years.

If he had been spending more time in Yorkshire, by these woods, Childermass might have noticed that things were not just different. They were wrong. But it is hot and there is sweet blackberry juice running down his chin and the woods are so quiet and still, he walks toward the heart of the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've almost written 2000 words and there's not even any thirst happening.


	3. Chapter 3

Henry Lascelles is not used to crossing these kinds of distances by foot, he is sure an hour must have passed in these wide and dark woods. His shirt is clinging to his body in the most uncomfortable of ways, and twigs and thorns are clinging to his shirt in the most unflattering of ways. He can barely remember why he is here. What is he supposed to do when he confronts Childermass? Why did Childermass lead him into these woods? Why is he even confronting him? Surely it is too hot for any kind of confrontation. Henry Lascelles would normally not admit to any weaknesses, but now he has to admit that he will not find his way back to Hurtfew Abbey without John Childermass. So he cannot stop and he cannot turn around and most importantly, he cannot lose sight of John Childermass.

Childermass finally slows down in a small clearing of the woods. Glimpses of the grey light of morning pierces through the darkness of the woods, showing Henry that while Childermass does not seem to be as fazed by this kind of exercise as he is, his shirt is just as drenched as his own. Lascelles stops before he reaches the light of the clearing, and takes cover behind a large bush. He watches as Childermass leans against a large tree, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as he unbuttons his shirt. There is something incredibly fascinating in watching him here. He looks as though he belongs here, as though nothing could come more natural for Childermass than being among the trees. 

Lascelles has been working with England’s only practical magician for some years now, and might even consider himself a theoretical magician. He does not, however, have the slightest idea as to how magic might _feel._ He knows what it might look like, but he cannot sense it. There are no strange smells or tastes, no dizziness or lightness of the body, not even the slightest headache. There is not a drop of magic in Henry Lascelles, and he takes great pride in this fact. He cannot be fooled by street sorcerers or fortune tellers and he can list one hundred reasons why anyone who believes in spirits or faeries is an absolute fool.

Because there is not a drop of magic in Henry Lascelles, he cannot sense when magic is upon him; entering his bloodstream and clouding his mind. He hears a flute playing, but does not think it strange at all. He barely notices that he licks his lips as John Childermass stretches his arms up above his head and gathers his hair up with one hand and twists a ribbon around it with the other. Lascelles does not feel the slight shift in the air, his mind is preoccupied and the temperature has not changed. He notices that Childermass looks a lot neater when his hair is not draped across his face and when his big coat is not covering his body. He takes a second to consider what these thoughts might imply, but really, who has the energy to _contemplate_ in this heat? 

John Childermass is lost. He has found himself in a clearing close to the heart of the forest, but he is not sure which direction is back, which would lead him to the other side of the moors and which direction he wants to avoid at all costs. He should have noticed how the paths were suddenly unfamiliar and how the moss-covered stones were larger than he had remembered them. His hand feels sticky from the berries he has eaten and his skin feels sticky from the heat. Even with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair up, the heat is becoming unbearable. It feels as though he is right under a scorching sun even though he’s mostly shaded. The humid heat is everywhere and he begs the dark clouds to open up and grant him some relief.

John Childermass knows magic. He has known magic for most of his life, and he can feel it in a variety of ways, with most of his senses. The magic in these woods is subtle, and he cannot be sure that it hasn’t always been here. There is the feeling that he has been followed here, of someone still watching him. And there is a soft scent of honey and the sharp taste of mugwort and wine on the very back of his tongue, followed by the strange sensation of touch – of light fingertips dancing up his thighs. It stops almost as soon as it has begun, leaving Childermass confused and worried, and wanting more of the taste and touch and smell.  
A low rumble is heard in the distance and a gust of wind passes through the clearing. At first Lascelles only feels the warm breeze against his skin, but then it feels as though the wind pushes through his skin and into his blood, a fiery wind pulsing through his veins. It should be painful, but the sparks are not burning him, this heat is different from the heat of the sweltering summer morning. He stands up and looks at Childermass. The beads of sweat clinging to the dark hair on his chest look like small pearls. Lascelles tries to remember why Childermass had asked him to come here in the first place, but all he remembers is soft music and a feeling deep inside his bones. Need.

Childermass sees something moving by the line of trees and before he can see what it is, he knows it is his prey. He was sent here to hunt and his prey has come to him willingly. He is not sure if he is to tear it to pieces or make love to it but he knows he needs it. A blond head of hair, a familiar face and shirt ripped to pieces, blood and twigs a stark contrast against pale skin and full lips. Henry Lascelles. And he is moving towards him.

“Henry.” Childermass’ voice is drowned by another crash of thunder but Lascelles still knows he is saying his name. Beckoning. He thinks maybe he should run because something about all this feels odd, but he also thinks he should be running towards Childermass because he is here for him.

Three steps and Childermass could reach out and put his hands on Lascelles’ thin body, push him down and do what he pleases. It would be so easy, but it is not supposed to be easy. He takes in the sight of the man in front of him, all torn up and sweaty and heavy breaths. He looks fragile and scared and it makes Childermass want to catch him more. He licks his lips and speaks again.

“Run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be more than five chapters, sorry. (not sorry, I love my trash boys.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Childermass and Lascelles do things that one might do in the woods.

The hunt begins, though they both know it will not last for long. Lascelles gives him one last look before taking off into the trees, reminding Childermass of a startled doe. Crashes of thunder echo all around them and a few drops of rain make their way down to the forest floor through the thick canopy. When the first few drops hit Childermass, he feels invigorated and he runs faster. Lascelles feels the first cool drop of water against the burning skin on his neck and he slows down. He looks up into the thick ceiling of the forest and his foot catches one of the thick roots stretching across the ground and he stumbles. His hands sink into deep green moss, it is soft and cool under the palms of his hands and he turns over, laying down on his back. He feels his body growing slightly cooler and his breath slightly slower and he can hear soft music and some loud thumping sounds. Like hooves. He knows he should get up if he is to escape but he needs to be caught.

Childermass finds Lascelles on a bed of moss. He is on his back, propped up on his elbows and his eyes staring right at him and he cannot remember anyone ever looking this inviting. He watches as the other man begins undressing, long and thin fingers undoing buttons and pulling down garments. It is all so fundamentally unlike the Henry Lascelles he knows. Eyes wide and somewhat glazed over, the usually cold expression on his face has been replaced by something soft and vulnerable. Willing prey. Childermass walks towards him.

The thunder sounds closer, but somewhat muted through the dense forest. Rain is falling down steadily now, slowly washing the sweat and heat away from their bodies. Childermass is right in front of him now, close enough that Lascelles can hear his breath and see how wide his pupils are. The temperature has dropped and the air feels much lighter and Lascelles greedily fills his lungs with air before his mouth is covered. Childermass’ lips are soft, much softer than he had imagined. He cannot remember when he had imagined what John Childermass’ lips might feel like but it feels as thought it has been a vivid image in his mind for a long time. Childermass’ kiss is urgent and there is not anything remotely romantic about it and yet he cannot remember ever feeling this wanted and appreciated. When he pulls away from the kiss, Lascelles lets out a sound that he normally would never utter in the presence of another human being. It is desperate and needy and he no longer cares because all he wants is more. He lowers himself back down into the moss.

The whimper almost makes Childermass lose all his bearings, almost makes him take Lascelles right away, almost makes him want to jump right to the point where Lascelles makes more sounds. But the hunt had been fast, so he wants this to last for as long as he can.

“Stay.” 

Childermass stands up again, takes a step back and takes in the sight of Henry Lascelles. His body is exquisite, pale and smooth, like a Roman statue but without any traces of physical labour. All laid out for him on this bed of moss. It looks like he is shivering – it might be from the rain but Childermass hopes he is shivering because he is thinking about what Childermass is about to do to him. There is no hair on his chest, and the hair on the rest of his body is light and sparse. 

He has sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and Childermass can’t wait to mimic that action and maybe sink his teeth into it. His hair is wet now, flattened and stuck to his head and to most people, it might have made him less attractive, but Childermass has never liked his feathery blonde hair and prefers this. It makes him look more real, more naked. His cock is as hard as Childermass’ own, thick and almost as light as the rest of his skin and he wants to taste it. Holding back seems wasteful.

He puts one leg on each side of Lascelles’ body and drops onto his knees, leaving some space between them but being close enough to touch and kiss and lick and bite. Lascelles’ arms reach up to touch him, but Childermass does not want that. Not at all. 

“Stop.”

Lascelles lowers his arms, his breathing is heavier than it had been minutes ago, when he was running through the tangles of the forest. Childermass takes hold of his wrists and pull his arms up over Lascelles’ head, his grip is firm and Lascelles lets out another undignified noise. His arms are folded and placed under his head.

“Move again and I will have to tie your arms together.”

The thought of being bound by Childermass sends a hot shiver down his spine. Childermass seems to have done this before. Several times. This is an entirely new experience for Henry Lascelles and he finds he is quite fond of it. But he understands the urgency and so lies as still as he can.

Lascelles is shaking when Childermass finally puts his hands on his body, his breath hitches with every brush against his skin and the touches on his neck, nipples and entire lower abdomen gives Childermass more of the lovely whimpers. He tries to calculate how to make this last as long as possible. How can he do all the things he wants without either of them spending before he’s finished? He leans down and drags his tongue across Lascelles’ neck, upward, ending with a quick flick of the tongue across his earlobe. He is making his small sounds most of the time now, whimpers, sounding like the sweetest mixture of “please stop” and “please don’t stop” and it is intoxicating and he wants to fuck him right now.

Lascelles thinks he would probably reach his peak right now if Childermass were to touch his cock. He cannot remember feeling this desperate for a touch ever, being so completely in the hands of another person while also not being in his hands enough. He turns his head to meet Childermass’ and at first it feels like a desperate reaching for one another, their tongues crashing and his lip being bit and there might be blood, but then Childermass licks the blood and drags the tip of his tongue across his lips before planting a softer kiss on them. Lascelles has never been too fond of kissing, it feels much too sentimental, but right now it feels entirely erotic. Every brush of Childermass’ tongue against his own makes him even more aroused, and he is moaning and moving his hips and he thinks he might come, but then Childermass pulls away, and pushes his hips down with a firm hand.

“I told you to stop moving.”

Childermass straightens his back again, looking down at Lascelles. His lips are swollen and there is a bite mark on the left side of his lower lip, his breaths are heavy and he has a wild look about him. If Lascelles keeps pushing up against him he will not last very long. He raises his arm and Lascelles’ moan comes only a second after the sound of the palm of Childermass’ hand hitting his cheek. The realization that Lascelles actually enjoyed it causes Childermass to let out a sound of his own. 

He climbs off of Lascelles and lays down next to him, his body pressing against his side, head propped up by one arm and the other moving up his smooth chest. He feels it moving up and down, so fast, and he revels in the knowledge that he is causing it. He drags his nails across the pale skin and Childermass is satisfied to see it turning red instantly. Lascelles might be saying something, but he is far to occupied to listen, he is creating a pattern of scratches across Lascelles’ chest, stomach, thighs, inner thighs.

“Please!” Lascelles voice is unsteady, but he is still loud enough to catch Childermass’ attention. “Fuck me.”

“Quiet.” 

Childermass uses his nails to pinch a nipple, before moving his hand to Lascelles’ mouth. He keeps his mouth shut, and Childermass realizes that he has never done this before, he must be thinking that Childermass only wants him to keep his mouth shut. Lascelles has never been buggered before and he will be the first one to do it. He wants it to hurt.

“Suck them.”

Lascelles opens his mouth, and Childermass slips two fingers inside, resting them on his tongue as soft lips close around them. It feels awkward and he really does not have the patience to teach him these things, so he pulls his fingers out and locks his eyes with Lascelles, making sure that he is watching. Childermass slides his tongue over them, coating them in his saliva and Lascelles finally seems to understand what he is doing, because his eyes widen and he licks his lips.

Lascelles is writhing under his hands, helpless and desperate as Childermass reaches his backside, slowly moving a slick finger up and down his cleft, eliciting small whimpers whenever he touches his opening. Finally, Childermass begins working a finger inside Lascelles, moving in slow circles into him. Lascelles moves against him, as if to tell him to go faster, deeper. More. He pushes his finger all the way inside him and moans against his ear when he feels Lascelles’ warmth wrapped around him. He moves his finger, just so, bending it just a little bit, just to hear another whimper. He slowly pulls the first finger out, and then push both fingers into him. He begins moving his fingers in and out of him in a steady pace, while using his other hand to unbutton his breeches.

He pulls his fingers out, and pulls his breeches down. He touches the tip of his cock, rubbing the precome over it to make it slick. He flips Lascelles over and pulls him towards him, his knees in the moss and his face resting on his folded arms close to the ground. Bent over and open and submissive and it’s the most wonderful of sights, and the most pleasing position he has ever seen Lascelles in. The other man is still whimpering, and when Childermass’ cock touches his opening, he moves against it, begging Childermass to fuck him without speaking. He groans when he, at last, pushes the head of his cock into Lascelles. The first tight, straining feeling threatens to make him come before he’s even inside, even more so when he hears the sounds Lascelles is making. He takes a deep breath and bites down on his lip before pushing in more, just enough to get his head fully inside, just enough to make Lascelles’ sound go from whimpers to deeper and darker moans.

Lascelles feels hands on his hips and nails digging into his skin and it feels as though a part of his mind has shut off. As though the only parts of his consciousness still functioning are the ones that feel pleasure and pain, the rest of him is just body. This is the sweetest combination of sensations and he wants it to stop and to go on forever. Childermass is moving so slowly, and Lascelles is sure he is doing it to torture him. He moves his hips again, just a bit, just to get more of Childermass inside of him. The grip on his hip tightens and nails dig into his skin and Childermass lets out a breathy moan as he pushes inside him, fully. Lascelles gasps because the pain is sharp and sudden and he thinks he might not want this as much as he thought, but then Childermass leans over him, his chest against Lascelles’ back and he feels the cock inside of him shift ever so slightly, and some of the discomfort eases.

“Breathe.” Childermass whispers, and Lascelles knows it is a command, and so he takes a few deep breaths and allows himself to relax. Teeth dig into his shoulder and Childermass starts moving inside him, small and slow movements that make the feelings of pleasure more intense than the pain, and for a second the whole world fades away and Lascelles thinks he may be screaming. Childermass places a kiss on the bite mark before straightening himself up and putting his hands back on Lascelles hips. 

When Childermass at last feels Lascelles’ muscles relaxing around him, he is rapacious, he grips Lascelles’ thin hips and finally fucks him. Slowly at first, almost pulling all the way out before thrusting back, a steady pace that he can tell Lascelles appreciates. His moans are deep and throaty and he rocks his hips back when Childermass pushes deep inside of him. 

“Fuck.”

Childermass tightens his grip on Lascelles hips again, and starts moving faster. He is making sounds he cannot hear and he is sure Lascelles is making lovely noises, but all that exists right now is Lascelles’ tight ass and his cock inside it. Each thrust is hard and determined, and feeling him under and around him is ecstatic and he is getting so close and he digs his nails into Lascelles’ skin and feels it break in a few places and with a final thrust he tenses up and it may be the greatest pleasure in the world when he comes, deep inside Henry Lascelles and feels his seed spill inside him. Debauching him. 

The sound Lascelles makes when Childermass pulls out of him sounds like a protest. He grins, when has Lascelles ever _needed_ him before? He takes a moment to collect himself before he moves, standing in front of Lascelles and pulling him up by the shoulders. The sight of Lascelles’ face makes his cock twitch. His eyes are glassy and red, as though he’s been crying, and there is some dirt on his left cheek and the small wound on his lip is bleeding again, probably because Lascelles has been biting it. If he hadn’t been so eager to make Lascelles come, he would have waited until he was ready to go again. Childermass puts his hand on the back of Lascelles head and pulls him in for a kiss, Lascelles is moaning and squirming against him, his tongue desperately reaching for his own. Childermass lets go of him, and looks into Lascelles’ wide eyes, keeping their eyes locked as he moves down, until he is on all fours in the moss and his tongue circling the tip of Lascelles’ cock. He keeps his eyes upward long enough to see Lascelles mouth fall open and his eyelids fall close.

Lascelles tries to keep himself from coming, he wants this to last because seeing and feeling Childermass like this is bliss, but when moist lips close around his head he knows this will be over in mere seconds. Childermass quickly takes the full length of him into his mouth, and Lascelles can feel the back of his throat and he remembers that he can finally move his arms. He quickly puts his hands on Childermass’ head and thrusts into his mouth twice before twisting a strand of hair around his fingers and pulling as his semen runs down Childermass’ throat. He expects him to cough or choke but he only looks up at him, smiles his sideways smile and licks his lips. Lascelles slumps back down and Childermass lays on top of him. The forest sighs around them. Everything grows quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhh I got a bit carried away.


	5. Chapter 5

Lascelles pushes Childermass' heavy body off, and looks for his clothes. Of course. They are underneath him, soaked from the rain and the sweat and the semen. He is sore and angry and he cannot remember ever hating someone this much. He knows what happened but he does not know how it happened. He looks at the man next to him, already standing up and buttoning his breeches.

“So you are good for something after all.” Childermass’ voice is perfectly calm, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

“Shut your mouth.” Lascelles’ voice is hoarse and higher than he had wanted, and even though he does his best to add every ounce of spite to it, he cannot articulate his anger as well as normally. He punctuates his words with a glare, but it feels less powerful when he is sitting naked and wet in the moss. He pulls the wet clothes on, everything sticks to his body uncomfortably and he feels cold. He is sure he had been delirious from the heat only moments ago. 

“It seems we are no longer lost.” Childermass says and reaches a hand out. Lascelles scoffs and clumsily stands up by himself, almost slipping on the wet moss and his knees threatening to buckle under him. 

“You alright there, Henry?” 

Lascelles sees the hint of a smile on Childermass’ lips, and hears the laughter behind the words. He would hit Childermass right now if he didn’t need him to get back. He would break his nose and make him scream just so he would stop talking and then he would tear his clothes back off and make him scream out of pleasure.

“Shut up.” He mutters instead, keeping his gaze away from Childermass.

Childermass had not felt when the magic had started, but he had felt it loosen its grip on them right after they had collapsed onto the moss. His head had felt clearer and the woods had suddenly felt more familiar, though he had not seen the change. The rain had stopped and a waft of gorse had reached him from the moors. When he stood up (after having been pushed off of Henry Lascelles) he could see the edge of the forest, and it seemed as though they were no more than ten minutes from Hurtfew Abbey. He is not surprised that Lascelles is angry with him, he supposes it is easier than being angry with himself. Watching him trying to look dignified while wet and weak-legged is almost as pleasing as seeing him beg to be fucked.

They stop at the edge of the forest, both supposing something needs to be said, neither of them quite wanting to say it. They have agreed that Childermass will go back first, making sure the servant’s entrance is empty when Lascelles returns to give him some privacy, considering the state of his clothes and his bloodied lip.

“If you tell anyone, I will end you.” Lascelles says. He wants to say _that was the best sex of my life._

“I’ll leave the door ajar.” Childermass says. He wants to say _you're not so bad when you’re not speaking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I am full of regrets.  
> yes I will write more of this particular AU.  
> yes I am aware that this is a thirst fic.  
> THIS IS MY SECRET AND SHAMEFUL SHIP.


End file.
